Tortoise Trophies
by gryffinsdoor
Summary: Because the plot bunnies were caught napping - My collection of HP drabbles, one-shots, etc - mostly AU, various genres
1. The Walk in the Forest

_Welcome to my collection of odds and ends – called _Tortoise Trophies_ after the old folk tale of the Tortoise and the Hare, where the hare (plot bunny in our literary case) fails to reach the finish line in time, despite a brilliant start. I plan on adding new bits from time to time, and they are all adoptable bunnies if anyone wants to take them home to grow in a fresh environment. I only ask that proper credit be given._

_If you believe that I own anything in the HP universe, pages of undecipherable legalese stating otherwise will magically appear below. The rest of you get to read my fiction and exercise your opportunity to review (hint, hint) and you have my undying gratitude._

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><p><strong>AN:**_ This little drabble was the first bit of HP fanfiction I ever attempted, shortly after the release of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ and inspired by my own mum's moving on to her next great adventure around the same time. Tentatively titled _Three Mums_, the ficlet was originally conceived in three parts (one for each of the trio) but the first two parts never really came together. They were mostly preludes for the final scene anyway, which I decided to share as is – one of the most poignant moments from the final book. . ._

**The Walk in the Forest**  
>o<br>o  
>o<p>

Called by an irresistible force – across miles and years from beyond a boundary normally impenetrable – to a place once found familiar, she comes now as a stranger. But she does not resist the call, indeed she has welcomed it, expected it, hastened it. She has not come alone but accompanies her beloved and his two best mates from days of youth, all heeding the same call.

And now she stands among the tall dark silence of the wood – out of place, yet belonging; surreal yet genuine – the called facing the caller: the fruit of her womb, her son, the erstwhile baby she cuddled, nursed and caressed – before her now a man.

So much time has passed, there are so many things to say, yet no adequate words to say them. Instead they look at each other and let their eyes transcend mere words to speak of the longing, the love, the awareness of the other, the wishes that fate had not allowed to be. For the son has learned what led to that horrific separation years ago and the task needed now to complete the cycle, to fulfill his unspeakable destiny, and the mother has watched the son's ever more steady steps as he has grown, full of pride and wrenched with sorrow for all he has overcome.

To the men, her son asks questions, but not from idle curiosity as a child would. Nor does he seek wisdom in its fullest measure, only knowledge of reassurance – sustenance, fuel for his courage – for he cannot falter now.

He faces her once more – glistening green eyes that mirror her own – for his last question.

"Will you walk with me?"

Such a simple request, it need not have been asked, yet. . . to acknowledge his great need, to admit that this is the hardest task he would ever attempt, that he cannot dare approach it alone, he must ask.

She nods in return, again a simple and expected gesture, but conveyed unspoken is the acceptance of trust and the assurance that – if she had been granted the privilege – she would have been there for him always.

They move forward in the quiet of the pre-dawn, almost as if breaking the silence will break his resolve, but they do not worry. Together, they are strong, as strong as any army that ever marched against evil, for they have the power to conquer – the power the dark lord knows not.

It is the power of Love, welling within their hearts, given freely without reservation. How ironic it is that the violence, once ripping her soul from this earth, also bestowed that love so absolutely upon her child.

Her Love, her Life; she had given it willingly; it was the greatest gift she could have possibly given him.

And it would be enough.

For he would give it, just as she had – his Love, his Life, given freely without reservation.

For Love conquers all.

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>o<br>o


	2. Canon Fodder

_The previous chapter was meant to be a serious interpretation of a scene from canon. This little tome is quite the opposite. You have been warned._

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><p><strong>Canon Fodder<strong>

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>o<br>o

Harry Potter sluggishly opened his eyes to an unending vision of whiteness. He closed them again.

Yep, black. Open – white.

He awakened his other senses to discover he was once again laying on a hard surface in an empty void – a familiar empty void – without a stitch of clothing. . . again.

"Bloody hell. . ."

As he had done before, he quickly recalled some robes and sandals for himself and rose to greet the now familiar vision of his ethereal Kings Cross. He looked around for that ugly humanoid thing or an approaching dead headmaster, but. . . nothing moved on the empty platform.

"I wish there was some sort of textbook on what I was supposed to do – I was positive I had him that time. . ."

He turned and spied a bench nearby, and upon it was a thick book with a yellowish cover. He quickly stepped over and lifted it to read its flowing title, _Harry __Potter __and __the __Deathly __Hallows_.

"Well, I'll be. . . ask and ye shall receive. . ."

Eagerly rifling through the pages, stopping occasionally to verify the authenticity of its content, Harry eventually found the passage of the final confrontation in the Hogwarts Great Hall. With all the drama in the description, he missed the pertinent detail the first time through.

"Oh, here it is," he muttered to himself. "I was supposed to tell him to try a little remorse. . . I can't believe that one difference would cause our spells to combine upon him . . . then I could be celebrating instead of –"

"Hello?" came a strange voice.

In the same instant that Harry realized someone had silently approached, he was on his feet with wand ready. He briefly marveled that it was an intact and fully functional holly phoenix wand.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the young ginger haired female before him.

"I'm Ginny Weasley, and would you mind. . . ?" she said, indicating the wand pointed at her heart.

"Funny, you don't look like Ginny. . ."

"And how would you know?"

"Because I know Ginny, and you're not her. You're too tall for one thing. . ."

"Nonsense. Ask me something you believe only Ginny would know."

"Fair enough. Where did you first meet Harry Potter?"

"Kings Cross, when he and Ron were going to Hogwarts their first year. Of course, we weren't introduced until the next summer. . ."

"Okay, what about Tom's diary?"

"Oh, you would ask about that," she groaned. "Fine. All first year I was writing in this diary that wrote back and it eventually possessed me and made me open the Chamber of Secrets and turn a basilisk loose on the school. How was I supposed to know that Tom Riddle was a teenaged You-Know-Who?"

"What happened to your dad in your fourth year?"

"Attacked by a snake while he was working guard duty for the Order," she stated indignantly.

"Right. . . How about your first kiss with Harry Potter?"

"Ah, that was special – just the two of us in the Room of Requirement. . ."

"Ha! It was in the Gryffindor common room!"

"It most certainly was not! And unless Harry told you, there's no way –"

Harry stepped up close, cutting her off. "News flash, love. I _am_ Harry Potter."

She stepped back, blinking. "No, you aren't. . ." but lost her voice as Harry pulled aside his fringe to reveal the famous scar he'd had since the tender age of one.

"But, you can't be – Harry has blue eyes and his hair isn't a mop like yours. . ."

"I'll have you know these are my mother's eyes, and my hair –"

"Harry!" shouted another voice as a brunette-topped missile slammed into him and hugged him vigorously.

"Hermione?" said the pretend Ginny. "What are you doing here? And why are you snogging him?"

That was a very good question, mused Harry, and he should really find out the answer, but he was a little preoccupied with the insistent pair of lips locked with his. Eventually rational thought returned to his brain and he reminded himself that his Ginny would probably kill him for kissing another girl, even if he was already dead.

He pushed himself away and cleared his throat. "Erm. . . thanks, but. . . do I know you?"

"Of course, Harry! Don't you recognize me? Your betrothed soulmate and best friend since our first year?"

"Betrothed?" huffed the redhead. "I thought you fancied Ron!"

"Hold on," exclaimed Harry, "are you supposed to be Hermione? What is going on here? This is _my_ death crossing and I'm not supposed to have strangers popping in claiming to be my friends!"

At that moment, spellfire could be heard further down the platform and all three turned to watch a stiff figure blast away at various benches, dustbins and crates, then glide soundlessly through the debris collecting floating coins that would appear.

"And just what the bloody hell is _that_?" demanded Harry.

"I'm not sure, but it has a slight resemblance to Ron. . ."

The figure glided by, offering a stilted wave as it passed, all the while making sounds like the gibberish of a child.

"Ron?" the girls asked, stepping after while it recommenced firing at everything in its path.

"I need to get away from this nonsense," thought Harry, and turned to find a train waiting expectantly along the platform. He rushed aboard as the train slowly began to move. He closed the outside door and entering a compartment, leaned out the window and waved to the girls who stood gaping at his apparent escape.

"Harry!" cried the pretty brunette. "Where are you going? Don't leave me!"

"Hermione," said the other girl, "if you are betrothed to Harry, who am I supposed to marry?"

"I don't know," she huffed, "Gellert Grindelwald for all I care." She ran alongside the accelerating train. "Harry!" she called in desperation, but the platform ended and the train was speeding away.

"Nutters, the lot of 'em," said Harry, shaking his head in wonder.

His musing was interrupted by a sudden lurch in the train which caught Harry off balance, sending him head first into the carriage door. There was an explosion of pain in his forehead and then blackness overtook him.

o o o

"And what do we have here?"

"Another John Doe, male Caucasian, estimate late teens, five eleven, one sixty five, vitals good and steady, apparent head trauma with unknown object, may be suffering slight concussion. Found unconscious on the pavement outside emergency admitting."

"That's the third one this month. Does he have all the marks?"

"Yeah, including these," the nurse replied, lifting the patient's right hand. "Can you believe the lengths some people will go?"

"Water. . ." moaned the patient.

"Ah, I believe he's coming around. Here, sweetie, have a sip of this."

He struggled to lift his head enough where he could comfortably let the cool liquid slide down his parched throat. "Where am I?" he rasped, looking around wildly.

"In hospital, sweetie. You seem to have taken a pretty good hit topside here. Can you tell us your name?"

"Erm. . . yeah. Harry. Harry Potter."

The nurses exchanged a look.

"Is there someone we can call for you? Your parents?"

He winced. "No, not really. Parents dead. Other family don't want me around. Not sure where they are anyway. . . friends either. . ."

He seemed to drift back into his comatose state.

"Better call psych," said one nurse to the other, "and let them know we've got another Rowling junkie. . ."

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>o<br>o

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><p><em><strong>Author<strong>**'****s ****unnecessary ****end****note:** Yes, it's a multi-medium crossover at Harry's crossing over at King's Cross. I kept it intentionally brief to lessen the pain and scarring; you can thank me in your reviews :-)_

_If you are curious about the Grindelwald reference, you might find it amusing to look up Bonnie Wright's real-life fiancé. And that's probably enough said about that._

o


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